^'^' 



The Old Huntsman 

And Other Poems 



The Old Huntsman 

And Other Poems 



BY 

SIEGFRIED SASSOON 




NEW YORK 
E. p. DUTTON & COMPANY 

68 1 Fifth Avenue 



Published, 1918 ' \o\c^ 
By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 






First Edition, May, igiy 

Second Edition, A ugust, igi'j 

New American Edition, May, iqtS 



Printed in the United States of America 



To 
THOMAS HARDY, O.M. 



CONTENTS 






PAGE 


"^ The Old Huntsman 


I 


Absolution 


13 


Brothers 


14 


^^ The Dragon and the Undying 


15 


France 


16 


" To Victory 


17 


When I'm among a Blaze of Lights 


i8 


Golgotha 


19 


A Mystic as Soldier 


20 


The Kiss 


21 


The Redeemer 


22 


A Subaltern 


25 


" In the Pink " 


26 


A Working Party 


27 


A Whispered Tale 


30 


" Blighters '* 


31 


At Carnoy 


32 


To His Dead Body 


33 


Two Hundred Years After 


34 


" They " 


35 


Stand-to; Good Friday Morning 


36 



PAGE 

Special-Constable 37 

The Choral Union 39 

Liquor-Control 41 

•^'The One-legged Man 43 

Enemies 44 

The Tombstone-Maker 45 

Arms and the Man 46 

Died of Wounds 47 

J The Hero 48 

Stretcher Case 49 

Conscripts 51 

The Road 53 

Secret Music 54 

Nimrod in September 55 

Morning Express 56 

Noah 58 

Policeman 59 

David Cleek 60 

Ancestors 61 

Haunted 62 

Blind 65 

Before Day 66 

Villon 67 

Goblin Revel 68 

Night-Piece 69 

A Wanderer 70 



October 



71 



VJll 



PAGE 

The Heritage 7^ 

An Old French Poet 73 

Dryads 74 

I Before the Battle 75 

Morning-Land 7^ 

Arcady Unheeding 11 

Gibbet 78 

Dream Forest 79 

A Child's Prayer 80 

-doming Glory 81 

To-day 82 

Wonderment 83 

Daybreak in a Garden 84 

Companions 85 

A Poplar and the Moon 86 

South Wind 87 

Tree and Sky 88 

Alone 89 

Storm and Sunlight 9^ 

Wind in the Beechwood 9^ 

Wisdom 93 

U The Death-Bed 94 

The Last Meeting 97 

A Letter Home lOS 



The Old Huntsman 

And Other Poems 



The Old Huntsman 

[To Norman Loder] 

I've never ceased to curse the day I signed 
A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece. 
'Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough 
It cost me, what with my daft management, 
And the mean folk as owed and never paid me, 
And backing losers ; and the local bucks 
Egging me on with whiskies while I bragged 
The man I was when huntsman to the Squire. 

I'd have been prosperous if I'd took a farm 
Of seventy acres, drove my gig and haggled 
At Monday markets; now I've squandered all 
My savings; nigh three hundred pound I got 
As testimonial when I'd growfl too stifif 
And slow to press a beaten fdx. 



fit 






The Fleece! 
'Twas the damned Fleece that wore my Emily out, 
The wife of thirty years who served me well; 
(Not like this beldam clattering in the kitchen, 
That never trims a lamp nor sweeps the floor, 
And brings me greasy soup in a foul crock.) 

Blast the old harridan! What's fetched her now, 
Leaving me in the dark, and short of fire? 
And where's my pipe? 'Tis lucky I've a turn 
For thinking, and remembering all that's past. 
And now's my hour, before I hobble to bed, 
To set the works a-wheezing, wind the clock 
That keeps the time of life with feeble tick 
Behind my bleared old face that stares and wonders. 

• • • • • 

It's queer how, in the dark, comes back to mind 
Some morning of September. We've been digging 
In a steep, sandy warren, riddled with holes. 
And I've just pulled the terrier out and left 
A sharp-nosed cub-face blinking there and snapping, 



Then in a moment seen him mobbed and torn 

To strips in the baying hurly of the pack. 

I picture it so clear: the dusty sunshine 

On bracken, and the men with spades, that wipe 

Red faces : one tilts up a mug of ale. 

And, having stooped to clean my gory hands, 

I whistle the jostling beauties out o' the wood. 

I'm but a daft old fool! I often wish 

The Squire were back again — ah, he was a man! 

They don't breed men like him these days; he'd come 

For sure, and sit and talk and suck his briar 

Till the old wife brings up a dish of tea. 

Ay, those were days, when I was serving Squire! 

I never knowed such sport as '85, 

The winter afore the one that snowed us silly. 

Once in a way the parson will drop in 
And read a bit o' the Bible, if I'm bad, — 
Pray the Good Lord to make my spirit whole 
In faith : he leaves some 'baccy on the shelf, 



/ 



And wonders I don't keep a dog to cheer me, 
Because he knows I'm mortal fond of dogs I 

I ask you, what's a gent like that to me, 
As wouldn't know Elijah if I saw him. 
Nor have the wit to keep him on the talk ? 
'Tis kind of parson to be troubling still 
With such as me; but he's a town-bred chap, 
Full of his college notions and Christmas hymns. 

Religion beats me. I'm amazed at folk 
Drinking the gospels in and never scratching 
Their heads for questions. When I was a lad 
I learned a bit from mother, and never thought 
To educate myself for prayers and psalms. 

But now I'm old and bald and serious-minded, 

With days to sit and ponder. I'd no chance 

When young and gay to get the hang of all 

This Hell and Heaven : and when the clergy hoick 

And holloa from their pulpits, I'm asleep, 

However hard I listen ; and when they pray 
4 



It seems we're all like children sucking sweets 
In school, and wondering whether master sees. 

I used to dream of Hell when I was first 
Promoted to a huntsman's job, and scent 
Was rotten, and all the foxes disappeared, 
And hounds were short of blood; and officers 
From barracks over-rode 'em all day long 
On weedy, whistling nags that knocked a hole 
In every fence; good sportsmen to a man 
And brigadiers by now, but dreadful hard 
On a young huntsman keen to show some sport. 

Ay, Hell was thick with captains, and I rode 
The lumbering brute that's beat in half a mile, 
And blunders into every blind old ditch. 
Hell was the coldest scenting land I've known. 
And both my whips were always lost, and hounds 
Would never get their heads down; and a man 
On a great yawing chestnut trying to cast 'em 
While I was in a corner pounded by 



5 



The ugliest hog-backed stile you've clapped your 

eyes on. 
There was an iron-spiked fence round all the coverts, 
And civil-spoken keepers I couldn't trust, 
And the main earth unstopp'd. The fox I found 
Was always a three-legged 'un from a bag 
Who reeked of aniseed and wouldn't run. 
The farmers were all ploughing their old pasture 
And bellowing at me when I rode their beans 
To cast for beaten fox, or galloped on 
With hounds to a lucky view. I'd lost my voice 
Although I shouted fit to burst my guts. 
And couldn't blow my horn. 

And when I woke, 
Emily snored, and barn-cocks started crowing, 
And morn was at the window; and I was glad 
To be alive because I heard the cry 
Of hounds like church-bells chiming on a Sunday, — 
Ay, that's the song I'd wish to hear in Heaven! 
The cry of hounds was Heaven for me: I know 
Parson would call me crazed and wrong to say it, 



But Where's the use of life and being glad 
If God's not in your gladness? 

I've no brains 
For book-learned studies; but I've heard men say 
There's much in print that clergy have to wink at: 
Though many I've met were jolly chaps, and rode 
To hounds, and walked me puppies; and could 

pick 
Good legs and loins and necks and shoulders, ay, 
And feet, — 'twas necks and feet I looked at first. 

Some hounds I've known were wise as half your 

saints. 
And better hunters. That old dog of the Duke's, 
Harlequin; what a dog he was to draw! 
And what a note he had, and what a nose 
When foxes ran down wind and scent was catchy! 
And that light lemon bitch of the Squire's, old 

Dorcas, — 
She were a marvellous hunter, were old Dorcas! 

7 



Ay, oft I've thought: "If there were hounds in 

Heaven, 
"With God as Master, taking no subscription; 
"And all His blessed country farmed by tenants; 
"And a straight-necked old fox in every gorse!" 
But when I came to work it out, I found 
There'd be too many huntsmen wanting places, — 
Though some I've known might get a job with 

Nick! 

I've come to think of God as something like 

The figure of a man the old Duke was 

When I was turning hounds to Nimrod King, 

Before his Grace was took so bad with gout. 

And had to quit the saddle. Tall and spare, 

Clean-shaved and grey, with shrewd, kind eyes, that 

twinkled, 

And easy walk; who, when he gave good words, 

Gave them whole-hearted ; and would never blame 

Without just cause. Lord God might be like that, 

Sitting alone in a great room of books 

Some evening after hunting. 
8 



Now I'm tired 
With hearkening to the tick-tack on the shelf; 
And pondering makes me doubtful. 

Riding home 
On a moonless night of cloud that feels like frost 
Though stars are hidden, (hold your feet up, horse!) 
And thinking what a task I had to draw 
A pack with all those lame 'uns, and the lot 
Wanting a rest from all this open weather, — 
That's what I'm doing now. 

And likely, too, 
The frost'll be a long 'un, and the night 
One sleep. The parsons say we'll wake to find 
A country blinding-white with dazzle of snow. 

The naked stars make men feel lonely, — ^wheeling 
And glinting on the puddles in the road. 
And then you listen to the wind, and wonder 
If folk are quite «uch bucks as they appear 

9 



When dressed by London tailors, looking down 
Their boots at covert side, and thinking big. 

This world's a funny place to live in. Soon 
I'll need to change my country; but I know 
'Tis little enough I've understood my life, 
And a power of sights I've missed, and foreign 

marvels. 

I used to feel it, riding on spring days 

In meadows pied with sun and chasing clouds, 

And half forget how I was there to catch 

The foxes; lose the angry, eager feeling 

A huntsman ought to have, that's out for blood. 

And means his hounds to get it! 

Now I know 
It's God that speaks to us when we're bewitched. 
Smelling the hay in June and smiling quiet; 
Or when there's been a spell of summer drought, 
Lying awake and listening to the rain. 



lO 



I'd like to be the simpleton I was 

In the old days when I was whipping-in 

To a little harrier-pack in Worcestershire, 

And loved a dairymaid, but never knew it 

Until she'd wed another. So I've loved 

My life; and when the good years are gone down, 

Discover what I've lost. 

I never broke 
Out of my blundewng self into the world, 
But let it all go past me, like a man 
Half-asleep in a land that's full of wars. 

What a grand thing 'twould be if I could go 
Back to the kennels now and take my hounds 
For summer exercise; be riding out 
With forty couple when the quiet skies 
Are streaked with sunrise, and the silly birds 
Grown hoarse with singing; cobwebs on the furze 
Up on the hill, and all the country strange. 
With no one stirring; and the horses fresh. 
Sniffing the air I'll never breathe again. 

II 



You've brought the lamp then, Martha? I've no 

mind 
For newspaper to-night, nor bread and cheese. 
Give me the candle, and I'll get to bed. 



12 



Absolution 

The anguish of the earth absolves our eyes 
Till beauty shines in all that we can see. 
War is our scourge; yet war has made us wise, 
And, fighting for our freedom, we are free. 

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe, 
And loss of things desired; all these must pass. 
We are the happy legion, for we know 
Time's but a golden wind that shakes the grass. 

There was an hour when we were loth to part 
From life we longed to share no less than others. 
Now, having claimed this heritage of heart, 
What need we more, my comrades and my brothers? 



13 



Brothers 

Give me your hand, my brother, search my face; 
Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame. 
For we have made an end of all things base; 
We are returning by the road we came. 

Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead, 
And I am in the field where men must fight. 
But in the gloom I see your laurell'd head 
And through your victory I shall win the light. 



14 



The Dragon and the Undying 

All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings 
And beats upon the dark with furious wings; 
And, stung to rage by his own darting fires, 
Reaches with grappling coils from town to town; 
He lusts to break the loveliness of spires, 
And hurls their martyred music toppling down. 

Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze, 
Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas. 
Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night. 
And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams. 
Tenderly stooping earthward from their height, 
They wander in the dusk with chanting streams; 
And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung, 
To hail the burning heavens they left unsung. 

IS 



France 

She triumphs, in the vivid green 
Where sun and quivering foliage meet; 
And in each soldier's heart serene; 
When death stood near them they have seen 
The radiant forests where her feet 
Move on a breeze of silver sheen. 

And they are fortunate, who fight 

For gleaming landscapes swept and shafted 

And crowned by cloud pavilions white; 

Hearing such harmonies as might 

Only from Heaven be downward wafted — 

Voices of victory and delight 



'.6 



To Victory 

[To Edmund Gosse] 
Return to greet me, colours that were my joy, 
Not in the woeful crimson of men slain, 
But shining as a garden; come with the streaming 
Banners of dawn and sundown after rain. 

I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver, 
Radiance through living roses, spires of green 
Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood 
Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen. 

I am not sad; only I long for lustre, — 
Tired of the greys and browns and the leafless ash. 
I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers 
Far from the angry guns that boom and flash. 

Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness, 

Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart 

rejoice ; 

Come from the sea with breadth of approaching 

brightness, 

When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with 

uplifted voice. 
17 



when Vm among a Blaze of Lights 

When I'm among a blaze of lights, 
With tawdry music and cigars 
And women dawdling through delights, 
And officers at cocktail bars, — 
Sometimes I think of garden nights 
And elm trees nodding at the stars. 

I dream of a small firelit room 
With yellow candles burning straight, 
And glowing pictures in the gloom, 
And kindly books that hold me late. 
Of things like these I love to think 
When I can never be alone: 
Then someone says, "Another drink?"— 
And turns my living heart to stone. 



i8 



Golgotha 

Through darkness curves a spume of falling flares 
That flood the field with shallow, blanching light. 

The huddled sentry stares 

On gloom at war with white, 

And white receding slow, submerged in gloom. 

Guns into mimic thunder burst and boom, 

And mirthless laughter rakes the whistling night. 
The sentry keeps his watch where no one stirs 
But the brown rats, the nimble scavengers. 



19 



A Mystic as Soldier 



I LIVED my days apart, 
Dreaming fair songs for God, 
By the glory in my heart 
Covered and crowned and shod. 

Now God is in the strife, 
And I must seek Him there, 
Where death outnumbers life. 
And fury smites the air. 

I walk the secret way 
With anger in my brain. 
O music through my clay. 
When will you sound again? 



20 



The Kiss 



To these I turn, in these I trust; 
Brother Lead and Sister Steel. 
To his blind power I make appeal; 
I o^uard her beauty clean from rust. 

He spins and burns and loves the air, 
And splits a skull to win my praise; 
But up the nobly marching days 
She glitters naked, cold and fair. 

Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this; 
That in good fury he may feel 
The body where he sets his heel 
Quail from your downward darting kiss. 



21 



The Redeemer 

Darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; 
It was past twelve on a mid-winter night, 
When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep : 
There, with much work to do before the light, 
We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might 
Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, 
And droning shells burst with a hollow bang; 
We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one. 
Darkness : the distant wink of a huge gun. 

I turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm; 
A rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare. 
And lit the face of what had been a form 
Floundering in mirk. He stook before me there; 
I say that he was Christ; stiff in the glare, 

23 



And leaning forward from his burdening task, 
Both arms supporting it; his eyes on mine 
Stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask 
Of mortal pain in Hell's unholy shine. 

No thorny crown, only a woollen cap 
He wore — an English soldier, white and strong, 
Who loved his time like any simple chap. 
Good days of work and sport and homely song; 
Now he has learned that nights are very long. 
And dawn a watching of the windowed sky. 
But to the end, unjudging, he'll endure 
Horror and pain, not uncontent to die 
That Lancaster on Lune may stand secure. 

He faced me, reeling in his weariness, 
Shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear. 
I say that he was Christ, who wrought to bless 
All groping things with freedom bright as air. 
And with His mercy washed and made them fair. 

23 



Then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, 
While we began to struggle along the ditch; 
And someone flung his burden in the muck, 
Mumbling: "O Christ Almighty, now I'm stuck!" 



24 



A Subaltern 

He turned to me with his kind, sleepy gaze 
And fresh face slowly brightening to the grin 
That sets my memory back to summer days 
With twenty runs to make, and last man in. 
He told me he'd been having a bloody time 
In trenches, crouching for the "crumps" to burst, 
While squeaking rats scampered across the slime 
And the grey palsied weather did its worst. 
But as he stamped and shivered in the rain, 
My stale philosophies had served him well; 
Dreaming about his girl had sent his brain 
Blanker than ever — she'd no place in Hell. . . . 
"Good God!" he laughed, and calmly filled his pipe, 
Wondering "why he always talked such tripe." 



25 



"In the Pink" 

So Davies wrote : "This leaves me in the pink." 
Then scrawled his name: ''Your loving sweetheart, 

Willie." 
With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink 
Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, 
For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend. 
Winter was passing; soon the year would mend. 

He couldn't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark 

He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, 

When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark 

In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm 

Wi^'i brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear 

The simple, silly things she liked to hear. 

And then he thought : to-morrow night we trudge 

Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. 

Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, 

And everything but wretchedness forgotten. 

To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. 

And still the war goes on; he don't know why. 
26 



A Working Party 

Three hours ago he blundered up the trench, 
Sliding and poising, groping with his boots; 
Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls 
With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. 
He couldn't see the man who walked in front; 
Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet 
Stepping along the trench-boards, — often splashing 
Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep. 

Voices would grunt, "Keep to your right, — make 

way!" 
When squeezing past the men from the front-line: 
White faces peered, puffing a point of red; 
Candles and braziers glinted through the chinks 
And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom 
Swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore 
Because a sagging wire had caught his neck. 

27 



A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread 
And flickered upward, showing nimble rats, 
And mounds qpf glimmering sand-bags, bleached with 

rain; 
Then the slow, silver moment died in dark. 
The wind came posting by with chilly gusts 
And buffeting at corners, piping thin 
And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots 
Would split and crack and sing along the night, 
And shells came calmly through the drizzling air 
To burst with hollow bang below the hill. 

Three'hburs'ago he stumbled up the trench; 
Now he. will never walk that road again: 
He must be carried back, a jolting lump 
Beyond all need of tenderness and care; 
A nine-stone corpse with nothing more to do. 

He was a young man with a meagre wife 

And two pale children in a Midland town; 

He showed the photograph to all his mates; 
28 



And they considered him a decent chap 
Who did his work and hadn't much to say, 
And always laughed at other people's jokes 
Because he hadn't any of his own. 

That night, when he was busy at his job 

Of piling bags along the parapet, 

He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet, 

And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold. 

He thought of getting back by half-past twelve. 

And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep 

In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes 

Of coke, and full of snoring, weary men. 

He pushed another bag along the top, 

Craning his body outward; then a flare 

Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire; 

And as he dropped his head the instant split 

His startled life with lead, and all went out. 



29 



A Whispered Tale 

[To J. D.] 

I'd heard fool-heroes brag of where they'd been, 
With stories of the glories that they'd seen, 
Till there was nothing left for shame to screen. 

But you, good, simple soldier, seasoned well 
In woods and posts and crater-lines of hell, 
Who dodge remembered "crumps" with wry 

grimace, — 
Cold hours of torment in your queer, kind face. 
Smashed bodies in your strained, unhappy eyes, 
And both your brothers killed to make you wise; 
You had no empty babble; what you said 
Was like a whisper from the maimed and dead. 
But Memory brought the voice I knew, whose note 
Was smothered when they shot you in the throat; 
And still you whisper of the war, and find 
Sour jokes for all those horrors left behind. 

30 



** Blighters" 

The House is crammed : tier beyond tier they grin 
And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks 
Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; 
"We're sure the Kaiser loves the dear old Tanks!" 

I'd like to see a Tank come down the stalls, 
Lurching to ragtime tunes, or "Home, sweet 

Home,"- 
And there'd be no more jokes in Music-halls 
To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume. 



31 



At Carnoy 

Down in the hollow there's the whole Brigade 
Camped in four groups: through twilight falling 

slow 
I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, 
And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. 
Crouched among thistle-tufts I've watched the glow 
Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; 
And I'm content. To-morrow we must go 
To take some cursed Wood. . . O world God made 1 

^July 3rd, 1916. 



32 



To His Dead Body 

When roaring gloom surged inward and you cried, 
Groping for friendly hands, and clutched, and died, 
Like racing smoke, swift from your lolling head 
Phantoms of thoughts and memory thinned and fled. 

Yet, though my dreams that throng the darkened 

stair 
Can bring me no report of how you fare. 
Safe quit of wars, I speed you on your way 
Up lonely, glimmering fields to find new day, 
Slow-rising, saintless, confident and kind — 
Dear, red-faced father God who lit your mind. 



33 



Two Hundred Years After 

Trudging by Corbie Ridge one winter's night, 
(Unless old, hearsay memories tricked his sight), 
Along the pallid edge of the quiet sky 
He watched a nosing lorry grinding on. 
And straggling files of men; when thes-e were gone, 
A double limber and six mules went by, 
Hauling the rations up through ruts and mud 
To trench-lines digged two hundred years ago. 
Then darkness hid them with a rainy scud, 
And soon he saw the village lights below. 

But when he'd told his tale, an old man said 
That he'd seen soldiers pass along that hill; 
''Poor, silent things, they were the English dead 
"Who came to fight in France and got their fill." 



34 



"They" 

The Bishop tells us : "When the boys come back 
"They will not be the same; for they'll have fought 
"In a just cause: they lead the last attack 
"On Anti-Christ; their comrade's blood has bought 
"New right to breed an honourable race. 
"They have challenged Death and dared him face to 

face." 

"We're none of us the same!" the boys reply. 
"For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind; 
"Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; 
"And Bert's gone siphilitic: you'll not find 
"A chap who's served that hasn't found some change." 
And the Bishop said: "The ways of God are 

strange !" 



35 



Stand-to: Good Friday Morning 

I'd been on duty from two till four. 
I went and stared at the dug-out door. 
Down in the frowst I heard them snore. 
"Stand to!" Somebody grunted and swore. 

Dawn was misty; the skies were still; 

Larks were singing, discordant, shrill; 

They seemed happy; but / felt ill. 
Deep in water I splashed my way 
Up the trench to our bogged front line. 
Rain had fallen the whole damned night. 
O Jesus, send me a wound to-day, 
And I'll believe in Your bread and wine, 
And get my bloody old sins washed white! 



36 



Special-Constable 

"Put out that light!" he cried. 

But no one put it out. 

No one replied, 

And silence gulped his husky shout. 

Against the door he blundered, 

Knocked — but no one came. 

Wrathful, he wondered; 

"What's their number? What's their name?" 

And the moon above the town 
Through wisps of cloud looked down 
On roofs and cowls 
And cats and constables and owls. 

He clutched his truncheon tight, 
For he was bold that night. 
And hurled it high 
Up at the lit and lawless sky. 

37 



He bawled: 'Then go to Hell!" 

And, reeling home to bed, 

Blue brilliance fell 

From moons that danced within his head. 



38 



The Choral Union 

He staggered in from night and frost and fog, 
And lampless streets: he'd guzzled like a hog, 
And drunk till he was dazed; and now he came 

To hear he couldn't call to mind the name, — 

But he'd been given a ticket for the show. 

And thought he'd (hiccup) chance his luck and go. 

• • • • • 

The hall swam in his eyes, and soaring light 
Was dazzling-splendid after the dank night. 
He sat and blinked, safe in his cushioned seat, 
And licked his lips; he'd like a brandy, neat. 

"Who is the King of Glory?" they were saying — 
He pricked his ears; what was it? Were they 

praying? . . . . 
By God, it might be Heaven! For singers stood 
Ranked in pure white; and everyone seemed good; 

39 



And clergymen were sitting meekly round 
With joyful faces, drinking in the sound; 
And holy women, and plump, whiskered men. 
Could this be Heaven? And was he dead? . . . . 

and then 
They all stood up; the mighty chorus broke 
In storms of song above those blameless folk; 
And "Hallelujah, Hallelujah!" rang 
The burden of the triumph that they sang. 
* • • « ■ 

He gasped; it must be true; he'd got to Heaven 
With all his sins that seventy times were seven; 
And whispering "Hallelujah," mid their shout, 
He wondered when Lord God would turn him out. 



40 



Liquor-Control ' 

[To Roderick Meiklejohn] 

In the time of the war with the Philistine, 
Solomon uttered a law that said: 
''Down with the Sign of the Saracen's Head, 
''Shut up the Star and the Sun and the Vinel" 

Then the King went in to his glimmering dames 
And called the roll of their languorous names; 
But the Moon-faced Lily, the pearl divine, 
Swooned and implored, and was sick for wine. 

Down in the harem something stirred. 
But none of the eunuchs whispered a word. 
Glug, glug, glug! the concubines poured 
Warm wet liquor in health to their lord. 

41 



And Solomon spoke in a drunken voice: 
"Let cymbals sound! Let the people rejoice!" 
So the Jew-boys looked on the wine that was red 
In the Vine and the Star and the Saracen's Head. 



42 



The One-Legged Man 

Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald; 
Squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls; 
A homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stooked field. 
With sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls. 

And he'd come home again to find it more 

Desirable than ever it was before. 

How right it seemed that he should reach the span 

Of comfortable years allowed to man I 

Splendid to eat and sleep and choose a wife, 

Safe with his wound, a citizen of life. 

He hobbled blithely through the garden gate, 

And thought: "Thank God they had to amputate I" 



43 



Enemies 

He stood alone in some queer sunless place 
Where Armageddon ends; perhaps he longed 
For days he might have lived; but his young face 
Gazed forth untroubled: and suddenly there thronged 
Round him the hulking Germans that I shot 
When for his death my brooding rage was hot. 

He stared at them, half-v^ondering; and then 
They told him hov^ I'd killed them for his sake, — 
Those patient, stupid, sullen ghosts of men: 
And still there seemed no answer he could make. 
At last he turned and smiled, and all was well 
Because his face could lead them out of hell. 



44 



The Tombstone-Maker 

He primmed his loose red mouth, and leaned his 

head 
Against a sorrowing angel's breast, and said: 
"You'd think so much bereavement would have made 
"Unusual big demands upon my trade. 
"The War comes cruel hard on some poor folk — 
"Unless the fighting stops I'll soon be broke." 

He eyed the Cemetery across the road — 
"There's scores of bodies out abroad, this while, 
"That should be here by rights; they little knowM 
"How they'd get buried in such wretched style." 

I told him, with a sympathetic grin. 
That Germans boil dead soldiers down for fat; 
And he was horrified. "What shameful sin! 
"O sir, that Christian men should come to that!" 

45 



Arms and the Man 

Young Ctcesus went to pay his call 

On Colonel Sawbones, Caxton Hall: 

And, though his wound was healed and mended, 

He hoped he'd get his leave extended. 

The waiting-room was dark and bare. 
He eyed a neat-framed notice there 
Above the fireplace hung to show 
Disabled heroes where to go 
For arms and legs; with scale of price, 
And words of dignified advice 
How officers could get them free. 

Elbow or shoulder, hip or knee, — 

Two arms, two legs, though all were lost, 

They'd be restored him free of cost. 

Then a Girl-Guide looked in to say, 
"Will Captain Croesus come this way?" 
46 



Died of Wounds 

His wet, white face and miserable eyes 
Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: 
But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell 
His troubled voice: he did the business well. 

The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining, 
And calling out for "Dickie." "Curse the Wood! 
"It's time to go; O Christ, and what's the good? — 
"We'll never take it; and it's always raining." 

I wondered where he'd been; then heard him shout, 
"They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don't go out" . . 
I fell alseep . . . next morning he was dead; 
And some Slight Wound lay smiling on his bed. 



47 



The Hero 

"Jack fell as he'd have wished," the Mother said, 

And folded up the letter that she'd read. 

"The Colonel writes so nicely." Something broke 

In the tired voice that quavered to a choke. 

She half looked up. "We mothers are so proud 

"Of our dead soldiers." Then her face was bowed. 

Quietly the Brother Officer went out. 
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies 
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt. 
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes 
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy. 
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy. 

He thought how "Jack," cold-footed, useless swine, 
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine 
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried 
To get sent home; and how, at last, he died. 
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care 
Except that lonely woman with white hair. 
48 



Stretcher Case 

[To Edward Marsh] 

He woke: the clank and racket of the train 
Kept time with angry throbbings in his brain. 
Then for a while he lapsed and drowsed again. 

At last he lifted his bewildered eyes 

And blinked, and rolled them sidelong; hills and 

skies, 
Heavily wooded, hot with August haze, 
And, slipping backward, golden for his gaze, 
Acres of harvest. 

Feebly now he drags 
Exhausted ego back from glooms and quags 
And blasting tumult, terror, hurtling glare, 
To calm and brightness, havens of sweet air. 

49 



He sighed, confused; then drew a cautious breath; 
This level journeying was no ride through death. 
"If I were dead," he mused, "there'd be no 

thinking — 
"Only some plunging underworld of sinking, 
"And hueless, shifting welter where I'd drown." 

Then he remembered that his name was Brown. 

But was he back in Blighty? Slow he turned, 
Till in his heart thanksgiving leapt and burned. 
There shone the blue serene, the prosperous land. 
Trees, cows and hedges; skipping these, he scanned 
Large, friendly names that change not with the year. 
Lung Tonic, Mustard, Liver Pills and Beer. 



50 



Conscripts 

"Fall in, that awkward squad, and strike no more 
"Attractive attitudes! Dress by the right! 
"The luminous rich colours that you wore 
"Have changed to hueless khaki in the night. 
"Magic? What's magic got to do with you? 
"There's no such thing! Blood's red and skies are 

blue." 

They gasped and sweated, marching up and down. 
I drilled them till they cursed my raucous shout. 
Love chucked his lute away and dropped his crown. 
Rhyme got sore heels and wanted to fall out. 
"Left, right! Press on your butts!" They looked 

at me 
Reproachful; how I longed to set them free! 

51 



I gave them lectures on Defence, Attack; 
They fidgeted and shuffled, yawned and sighed, 
And boggled at my questions. Joy was slack. 
And Wisdom gnawed his fingers, gloomy-eyed. 
Young Fancy — how I loved him all the while — 
Stared at his note-book with a rueful smile. 

Their training done, I shipped them all to France. 
Where most of those I'd loved too well got killed. 
Rapture and pale Enchantment and Romance, 
And many a sickly, slender lord who'd filled 
My soul long since with lutanies of sin. 
Went home, because they couldn't stand the din. 

But the kind, common ones that I despised, 
(Hardly a man of them I'd count as friend). 
What stubborn-hearted virtues they disguised! 
They stood and played the hero to the end, 
Won gold and silver medals bright with bars. 
And marched resplendent home with crowns and stars. 



52 



The Road 

The road is thronged with women; soldiers pass 
And halt, but never see them; yet they're here — 
A patient crowd along the sodden grass, 
Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. 
The road goes crawling up a long hillside, 
All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs 
Of battle thrown in heaps. Here where they died 
Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs; 
And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, 
Stare up at caverned darkness winking white. 

You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock, 

You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on. 

Half dazed for want of sleep. No dream could mock 

Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. 

You did not feel her arms about your knees, 

Her blind caress, her lips upon your head: 

Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease, 

The road would serve you well enough for bed. 

53 



Secret Music 



I KEEP such music in my brain 

No din this side of death can quell, — 

Glory exulting over pain, 

And beauty, garlanded m hell. 

My dreaming spirit will not heed 
The roar of guns that would destroy 
My life that on the gloom can read 
Proud-surging melodies of joy. 

To the world's end I went, and found 
Death in his carnival of glare; 
But in my anguish I was crowned. 
And music dawned above despair. 



54 



Nimrod in September 

When half the drowsy world's a-bed 
And misty morning rises red, 
With jollity of horn and lusty cheer, 
Young Nimrod urges on his dwindling rout; 
Along the yellowing coverts we can hear 
His horse's hoofs thud hither and about: 
In mulberry coat he rides and makes 
Huge clamour in the sultry brakes. 



55 



Morning Express 

Along the wind-swept platform, pinched and white, 
The travellers stand in pools of wintry light. 
Offering themselves to morn's long, slanting arrows. 
The train's due; porters trundle laden barrows. 
The train steams in, volleying resplendent clouds 
Of sun-blown vapour. Hither and about. 
Scared people hurry, storming the doors in crowds. 
The officials seem to waken with a shout. 
Resolved to hoist and plunder; some to the vans 
Leap; others rumble the milk in gleaming cans. 

Boys, indolent-eyed, from baskets leaning back, 

Question each face; a man with a hammer steals 

Stooping from coach to coach; with clang and clack, 

Touches and tests, and listens to the wheels. 

Guard sounds a warning whistle, points to the clock 

With brandished flag, and on his folded flock 
56 



Claps the last door: the monster grunts; "Enough!" 
Tightening his load of links with pant and puff. 
Under the arch, then forth into blue day, 
Glide the processional windows on their way. 
And glimpse the stately folk who sit at ease 
To view the world like kings taking the seas 
In prosperous weather: drifting banners tell 
Their progress to the counties; with them goes 
The clamour of their journeying; while those 
Who sped them stand to wave a last farewell. 



57 



Noah 

When old Noah started across the floods 
Sky and water melted into one 
Looking-glass of shifting tides and sun. 

Mountain-tops were few: the ship was foul: 
All the morn old Noah marvelled greatly 
At this weltering world that shone so stately, 
Drowning deep the rivers and the plains. 
Through the stillness came a rippling breeze; 
Noah sighed, remembering the green trees. 

Clear along the morning stooped a bird, — 
Lit beside him with a blossomed sprig. 
Earth was saved; and Noah danced a jig. 



58 



Policeman 



Sitting in the hedge I hear 
Through sunlit morning fresh and still 
Sounds and voices far and near, 
And sheep-bells under the green hill. 
Who's a-trudging up the lane? 
Whistling birds around him saying; 
"Spring, spring, you're here again! 
"April's come, and lambs are playing!" 

Policeman's eye says: "Who are you?" 
Pacing past me stifif and slow, 
Tightly buttoned up in blue. 
Hot and stately. And I know 
If I jump down, and in my fun 
Clout his red ear, then start to run, 
He'll grab me quick and give me hell, 
And lock me up in quod as well. 



59 



David Cleek 

I CANNOT think that Death will press his claim 
To snuff you out or put you off your game: 
You'll still contrive to play your steady round, 
Though hurricanes may svs^eep the dismal ground, 
And darkness blur the sandy-skirted green 
Where silence gulfs the shot you strike so clean. 

Saint Andrew guard your ghost, old David Cleek, 
And send you home to Fifeshire once a week! 
Good-fortune speed your ball upon its way 
When Heaven decrees its mightiest Medal-Day: 
Till crowds of Angels chant for evermore 
The miracle of your unbeaten score; 
And He who keeps all players in His sight. 
Walking the royal and ancient hills of light, 
Standing benignant at the eighteenth hole, 
To everlasting Golf consigns your soul. 



60 



Ancestors 

Behold these jewelled, merchant Ancestors, 
Foregathered in some chancellery of death; 
Calm, provident, discreet, they stroke their beards 
And move their faces slowly in the gloom, 
And barter monstrous wealth with speech subdued, 
Lustreless eyes and acquiescent lids. 

And oft in pauses of their conference. 
They listen to the measured breath of night's 
Hushed sweep of wind aloft the swaying trees 
In dimly gesturing gardens; then a voice 
Climbs with clear mortal song half-sad for 

heaven. 

A silent-footed message flits and brings 

The ghostly Sultan from his glimmering halls; 

A shadow at the window, turbaned, vast. 

He leans; and, pondering the sweet influence 

That steals around him in remembered flowers. 

Hears the frail music wind along the slopes. 

Put forth, and fade across the whispering sea. 

6i 



Haunted 

Evening was in the wood, louring with storm. 
A time of drought had sucked the weedy pool 
And baked the channels; birds had done with song. 
Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon, 
Or willow-music blown across the water 
Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill. 

Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding, 

His face a little whiter than the dusk. 

A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head. 

The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs 
Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours 
Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in. 

He thought: "Somewhere there's thunder," as he 

strove 

To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him. 

But stood, the sweat of horror on his face. 
62 



He blundered down a path, trampling on thistles, 
In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees. 
And : "Soon I'll be in open fields," he thought, 
And half remembered starlight on the meadows, 
Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men, 
Fading along the field-paths ; home and sleep 
And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves. 
And far off the long churring night-jar's note. 

But something in the wood, trying to daunt him, 

Led him confused in circles through the brake. 

He was forgetting his old wretched folly. 

And freedom was his need; his throat was choking; 

Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his 

legs, 
And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps. 

Mumbling: "I will get out! I must get out!" 

Butting and thrusting up the bafiling gloom. 

Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns. 

He peers around with boding, frantic eyes. 

An evil creature in the twilight looping. 

Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off, 

63 



He screeched in terror, and straightway something 

clambered 
Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double, 
To shamble at him zigzag, squat and bestial. 

Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls 
With roaring brain — agony — the snap't spark — 
And blots of green and purple in his eyes. 
Then the slow fingers groping on his neck, 
And at his heart the strangling clasp of death. 



H 



Blind 

His headstrong thoughts that once in eager strife 
Leapt sure from eye to brain and back to eye, 
Weaving unconscious tapestries of life, 
Are now thrust inward, dungeoned from the sky. 
And he who has watched his world and loved it all, 
Starless and old and blind, a sight for pity, 
With feeble steps and fingers on the wall, 
Gropes with his staff along the rumbling city. 



65 



Before Day 

Come in this hour to set my spirit free 

When earth is no more mine though night goes out 

And stretching forth these arms I cannot be 

Lord of winged sunrise and dim Arcady: 

When fieldward boys far off with clack and shout 

From orchards scare the birds in sudden rout, 

Come, ere my heart grows cold and full of doubt 

In the still summer dawns that waken me. 

When the first lark goes up to look for day, 

And morning glimmers out of dreams, come then, 

Out of the songless valleys, over gray 

Wide misty lands to bring me on my way: 

For I am lone, a dweller among men, 

Hungered for what my heart shall never say. 



66 



Villon 

They threw me from the gates: my matted hair 
Was dank with dungeon wetness; my spent frame 
O'erlaid with marish agues: everywhere 
Tortured by leaping pangs of frost and flame, 
I was so hideous that even Lazarus there 
In noisome rags arrayed and leprous shame, 
Beside me set had seemed full sweet and fair, 
And looked on me with loathing. But one came 
Who wrapped me in his cloak and bore me in 
Tenderly to an hostel quiet and clean, — 
Used me with healing hands for all my needs. 
The foul estate of my unshriven sin, 
My long disgrace, and loveless, lecherous deeds, 
He has put by as though they had not been. 



67 



Goblin Revel 

In gold and grey, with fleering looks of sin, 
I watch them come; by two, by three, by four, 
Advancing slow, with loutings they begin 
Their woven measure widening from the door; 
While music-men behind are straddling in 
With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor, — 
And jangled dulcimers, and fiddles thin 
That taunt the twirling antic through once more. 

They pause, and hushed to whispers, steal away 
With cunning glances; silent go their shoon 
Upon the stairs: but far away the dogs 
Bark at some lonely farm; and haply they 
Have clambered back into the dusky moon 
That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs. 



68 



Night-Piece 

Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan, 
Quench your fantastic lanterns and be still; 
For now the moon through heaven sails alone. 
Shedding her peaceful rays from hill to hill. 
The faun from out his dim and secret place 
Draws nigh the darkling pool and from his dream 
Half-wakens, seeing there his sylvan face 
Reflected, and the wistful eyes that gleam. 

To his cold lips he sets the pipe to blow 
Some drowsy note that charms the listening air: 
The dryads from their trees come down and creep 
Near to his side; monotonous and low, 
He plays and plays till all the woodside there 
Stirs to the voice of everlasting sleep. 



69 



A Wanderer 

[To Hamo Thornycroft] 

When Watkin shifts the burden of his cares 
And all that irked him in his dull employ, 
Once more become a vagrom-hearted boy, 
He moves to roundelays and jocund airs: 
Afield with lusty harvestmen he shares 
Old ale and sunshine; or, with maids half-coy 
Pays court to shadows; clowns himself with joy, 
And shakes a leg at junketings and fairs. 

Sometimes, returning down his breezy miles, 

A snatch of wayward April he will bring, 

Piping the daffodilly that beguiles 

Foolhardy lovers in the surge of spring: 

And then once more by lanes and field-path stiles 

Up the green world he wanders like a king. 



70 



October 

Across the land a faint blue veil of mist 

Seems hung; the woods wear yet arrayment sober, 

Till frost shall make them flame; silent and whist 

The dropping cherry orchards of October 

Like mournful pennons hang their shrivelling leaves 

Russet and orange: all things now decay; 

Long since ye garnered in your autumn sheaves, 

And sad the robins pipe at set of day. 

Now do ye dream of Spring when greening shaws 
Confer with the shrewd breezes, and of slopes 
Flower-kirtled, and of April, sweetling guest; 
Days that ye love, despite their windy flaws. 
Since they are woven with all joys and hopes 
Whereof ye nevermore shall be possessed. 



71 



The Heritage 

Cry out on Time that he may take away 
Your cold philosophies that give no hint 
Of spirit-quickened flesh; fall down and pray 
That Death come never with a face of flint. 
Death is our heritage; with Life we share 
The sunlight that must own his darkening hour; 
Within his very presence yet we dare 
To gather gladness like a fading flower. 

For even as this, our joy not long may live 
Perfect; and most in change the heart can trace 
The miracle of life and human things. 
All we have held, to destiny we give; 
Dawn glimmers on the soul-forsaken face; 
Not we, but others, hear the bird that sings. 



72 



An Old French Poet 

When in your sober mood my body ye have laid 

In sight and sound of things beloved, woodland and 

stream, 
And the green turf has hidden the poor bones ye 

deem 
No more a close companion with those rhymes we 

made; 

Then, if some bird should pipe, or breezes stir the 

glade, 
Thinking them for the while my voice, so let them 

seem 
A fading message from the misty shores of dream, 
Or wheresoever, following Death, my feet have 

strayed. 



F 2 73 



Dryads 



When meadows are grey with the mora, 
In the dusk of the woods it is night; 
The oak and the ash and the pine 
War with the glimmer of light. 

Dryads brown as the leaf 
Move in the gloom of the glade; 
When meadows are grey with the morn, 
Dim night in the wood has delayed. 

The cocks that crow to the land 
Are faint and hollow and shrill: 
Dryads as brown as the leaf 
Whisper and hide and are still. 



74 



Before the Battle 

Music of whispering trees 
Hushed by the broad-winged breeze 
Where shaken water gleams; 
And evening radiance falling 
With reedy bird-notes calling. 

bear me safe through dark, you low-voiced streams 

1 have no need to pray 
That fear may pass away; 

I scorn the growl and rumble of the fight 

That summons me from cool 

Silence of marsh and pool, 

And yellow lilies islanded in light. 

O river of stars and shadows, lead me through the 

night. 
June 2Sth, jgi6. 



75 



Morning-Land 



Old English songs, you bring to me 
A simple sweetness somewhat kin 
To birds that through the mystery 
Of earliest morn made tuneful din, 
While hamlet steeples sleepily 
At cock-crow chime out three and four, 
Till maids get up betime and go, 
With faces like the red sun low, 
Clattering about the dairy floor. 



76 



Arcady Unheeding 



Shepherds go whistling on their way 

In the green glory of the year; 

One watches weather-signs of day; 

One of his maid most dear 

Dreams; and they do not hear 

The birds that sing and sing; they do not see 

Wide wealds of blue beyond their windy lea, 

Nor blossoms red and white on every tree. 



77 



Gibbet 

You that in moonlit meadows wander, 
See where your lover waits you yonder, 
Who has no guineas now to squander. 

There stands the lad your eyes were seeking, 
Whose absence made your false heart fonder — 
His limbs in rusty fetters creaking. 

The yellow moon shines clear above him: 
Go sit with him; he'll ne'er forsake you: 
Hie to him quick and say you love him, 
And hear what answer he will make you. 



78 



Dream Forest 



Where sunshine flecks the green, 
Through towering woods my way 
Goes winding all the day. 
Scant are the flowers that bloom 
Beneath the bosky screen 
And cage of golden gloom. 
Few are the birds that call, 
Shrill-voiced and seldom seen. 

Where silence masters all. 
And light my footsteps fall, 
The whispering runnels only 
With blazing noon confer; 
And comes no breeze to stir 
The tangled thickets lonely. 



79 



A Child's Prayer 

For Morn, my dome of blue, 

For Meadows, green and gay, 

And Birds who love the twilight of the leaves, 

Let Jesus keep me joyful when I pray. 

For the big Bees that hum 

And hide in bells of flowers; 

For the winding roads that come 

To Evening's holy door. 

May Jesus bring me grateful to his arms, 

And guard my innocence for evermore. 



Ifc 



Morning Glory 

In this meadow starred with spring 
Shepherds kneel before their king. 
Mary throned, with dreaming eyes, 
Gowned in blue like rain-washed skies, 
Lifts her tiny son that he 
May behold their courtesy. 
And green-smocked children, awed and good, 
Bring him blossoms from the wood. 

Clear the sunlit steeples chime 
Mary's coronation-time. 
Loud the happy children quire 
To the golden-windowed morn; 
While the lord of their desire 
Sleeps below the crimson thorn. 



8i 



To-day 

This is To-day, a child in white and blue 
Running to meet me out of Night who stilled 
The ghost of Yester-eve; this is fair Morn 
The mother of To-morrow. And these clouds 
That chase the sunshine over gleaming hills 
Are thoughts, delighting in the golden change 
And the ceremony of their drifting state. 

This is To-day. To-morrow might bring death, — 

And Life, the gleeful madrigal of birds, 

Be drowned in glimmer of sleep. To-day I know 

How sweet it is to spend these eyes, and boast 

This bubble of vistaed memory and sense 

Blown by my joy aloft the glittering airs 

Of heavenly peace. Oh take me to yourselves, 

Earth, sky, and spirit! Let me stand within 

The circle of your transience, that my voice 

May thrill the lonely silences with song. 



82 



Wonderment 

Then a wind blew; 

And he, who had forgot he moved 

Lonely amid the green and silver morning weather, 

Suddenly grew 

Aware of clouds and trees 

Gleaming and white and shafted, shaken together 

And blown to music by the ruffling breeze. 

Like flush of wings 

The moment passed: he stood 

Dazzled with blossom in the swaying wood; 

Then he remembered how, through all swift things, 

This mortal scene stands built of memories, — 

Shaped by the wise 

Who gazed in breathing wonderment, 

And left us their brave eyes 

To light the ways they went. 



83 



Daybreak in a Garden 

I HEARD the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and 

thin, 
When hooded night was going and one clear planet 

winked : 
I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood 

distinct, 
When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires 

of day. 
White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver- 
grey; 
The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken; 
And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of 

may, 
And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them 

waken. 



84 



Companions 

Leave not your bough, my slender song-bird sweet, 
But pipe me now your roundelay complete. 

Come, gentle breeze, and tarrying on your way, 
Whisper my trees what you have seen to-day. 

Stand, golden cloud, until my song be done, 
(For he's too proud), before the face of the sun. 

So one did sing, and the other breathed a story; 
Then both took wing, and the sun stepped forth in 

glory. 



85 



A Poplar and the Moon 

There stood a Poplar, tall and straight; 
The fair, round Moon, uprisen late. 
Made the long shadow on the grass 
A ghostly bridge 'twixt heaven and me. 

But May, with slumbrous nights, must pass; 

And blustering winds will strip the tree. 
And I've no magic to express 
The moment of that loveliness; 
So from these words you'll never ^uess 
The stars and lilies I could see. 



86 



South Wind 

Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day 

morning, 
With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow. 
Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket? 

Oh, I heard you like a tyrant in the valley; 
Your ruffian haste shook the young, blossoming 

orchards; 
You clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney, 
And white your pennons streamed along the river. 

You have robbed the bee. South Wind, in your 

adventure, 
Blustering with gentle flowers; but I forgave you 
When you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn. 



87 



Tree and Sky 

Let my soul, a shining tree, 
Silver branches lift towards thee, 
Where on a hallowed winter's night 
The clear-eyed angels may alight. 

And if there should be tempests in 

My spirit, let them surge like din 

Of noble melodies at war; 

With fervour of such blades of triumph as are 

Flashed in white orisons of saints who go 

On shafts of glory to the ecstasies they know. 



88 



Alone 

I'VE listened: and all the sounds I heard 
Were music,— wind, and stream, and bird. 
With youth who sang from hill to hill 
I've listened: my heart is hungry still. 

I've looked: the morning world was green; 
Bright roofs and towers of town I've seen, 
And stars, wheeling through wingless night. 
I've looked: and my soul yet longs for light. 

I've thought: but in my sense survives 
Only the impulse of those lives 
That were my making. Hear me say, 
"I've thought!"— and darkness hides my day. 



89 



Storm and Sunlight 

I. 

In barns we crouch, and under stacks of straw, 
Harking the storm that rides a hurtling legion 
Up the arched sky, and speeds quick heels of panic 
With growling thunder loosed in fork and clap 
That echoes crashing thro' the slumbrous vault. 
That whispering woodlands darken: vulture Gloom 
Stoops, menacing the skeltering flocks of Light, 
Where the gaunt shepherd shakes his gleaming staff 
And foots with angry tidings down the slope. 
Drip, drip; the rain steals in through soaking thatch 
By cob-webbed rafters to the dusty floor. 
Drums shatter in the tumult; wrathful Chaos 
Points pealing din to the zenith, then resolves 
Terror in wonderment with rich collapse. 



9P 



II. 

Now from drenched eaves a swallow darts to skim 

The crystal stillness of an air unveiled 

To tremulous blue. Raise your bowed heads, and let 

Your horns adorn the sky, ye patient kine! 

Haste, flashing brooks! Small, chuckling rills. 

Rejoice ! 
Be opened-eyed for Heaven, ye pools of peace! 
Shine, rainbow hills! Dream on, fair glimpsed vale 
In haze of drifting gold! And all sweet birds. 
Sing out your raptures to the radiant leaves! 
And ye, close huddling Men, come forth to stand 
A moment simple in the gaze of God 
That sweeps along your pastures! Breathe his might! 
Lift your blind faces to be filled with day, 
And share his benediction with the flowers. 



91 



Wind in the Beechwood 

The glorying forest shakes and swings with glancing 
Of boughs that dip and strain; young, slanting 

sprays 
Beckon and shift like lissom creatures dancing, 
While the blown beechwood streams with drifting 

rays. 
Rooted in steadfast calm, grey stems are seen 
Like weather-beaten masts; the wood, unfurled 
Seems as a ship with crowding sails of green, 
That sweep across the lonely, billowing world. 

O luminous and lovely! Let your flowers. 

Your ageless-squadroned wings, your surge and gleam. 

Drown me in quivering brightness: let me fade 

In the warm, rustling music of the hours 

That guard your ancient wisdom, till my dream 

Moves with the chant and whisper of the glade. 



92 



Wisdom 

When Wisdom tells me that the world's a speck 
Lost on the shoreless blue of God's To-Day. . . 
I smile, and think, "For every man his way: 
"The world's my ship, and I'm alone on deck!" 

But when he tells me that the world's a spark 

Lit in the whistling gloom of God's To-night. . . 

I look within me to the edge of dark. 

And dream, "The world's my field, and I'm the lark, 

"Alone with upward song, alone with light!" 



93 



The Death-Bed 

He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped 
Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; 
Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, 
Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep, — 
Silence and safety; and his mortal shore 
Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death. 

Someone was holding water to his mouth. 
He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped 
Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot 
The opiate throb and ache that was his wound. 
Water — calm, sliding green above the weir; 
Water — a sky-lit alley for his boat. 
Bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers 
And shaken hues of summer: drifting down. 

He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept. 
94 



Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, 
Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve. 
Night. He was blind ; he could not see the stars 
Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud ; 
Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, 
Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes. 

Rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark; 
Fragrance and passionless music woven as one; 
Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers 
That soak the woods ; not the harsh rain that sweeps 
Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace 
Gently and slowly washing life away. 

He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain 
Leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore 
His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs. 
But someone was beside him; soon he lay 
Shuddering because that evil thing had passed. 
And death, who'd stepped toward him, paused 

and stared. 



Light many lamps and gather round his bed. 
Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. 
Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. 
He's young; he hated war; how should he die 
When cruel old campaigners win safe through? 

But Death replied: "I choose him." So he went, 
And there was silence in the summer night; 
Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. 
Then, far away, the thudding of the guns. 



96 



The Last Meeting 

I. 

Because the night was falling warm and still 

Upon a golden day at April's end, 

I thought; I will go up the hill once more 

To find the face of him that I have lost, 

And speak with him before his ghost has flown 

Far from the earth that mijght not keep him long. 

So down the road I went, pausing to see 
How slow the dusk drew on, and how the folk 
Loitered about their doorways, well-content 
With the fine weather and the waxing year. 
The miller's house, that glimmered with grey walls, 
Turned me aside; and for a while I leaned 
Along the tottering rail beside the bridge 
To watch the dripping mill-wheel green with damp. 

97 



The miller peered at me with shadowed eyes 
And pallid face: I could not hear his voice 
For the insistent water. He was old : 
His days went round with the unhurrying wheel. 

Moving along the street, each side I saw 
The humble, kindly folk in lamp-lit rooms; 
Children at table; simple, homely wives; 
Strong, grizzled men; and soldiers back from war, 
Scaring the gaping elders with loud talk. 

Soon all the jumbled roofs were down the hill, 

And I was turning up the grassy lane 

That goes to the big, empty house that stands 

Above the town, half-hid by towering trees. 

I looked below and saw the glinting lights : 

I heard the treble cries of bustling life, 

And mirth, and scolding; and the grind of wheels. 

An engine whistled, piercing-shrill, and called 

High echoes from the sombre slopes afar; 

Then a long line of trucks began to move. 
98 



It was quite still; the columned chestnuts stood 
Dark in their noble canopies of leaves. 
I thought: "A little longer I'll delay, 
"And then he'll be more glad to hear my feet, 
"And with low laughter ask me why I'm late. 
"The place will be too dim to show his eyes ; 
"But he will loom above me like a tree, 
"With lifted arms and body tall and strong." 

There stood the empty house; a ghostly hulk 

Becalmed and huge, massed in the mantling dark, 

As builders left it when quick-shattering war 

Leapt upon France and called her men to fight. 

Lightly along the terraces I trod, 

Crunching the rubble till I found the door 

That gaped in twilight, framing inward gloom. 

An owl flew out from under the high eaves 

To vanish secretly among the firs. 

Where lofty boughs netted the gleam of stars. 

I stumbled in; the dusty floors were strewn 

With cumbering piles of planks and props and beams; 

99 



Tall windows gapped the walls; the place was free 
To every searching gust and jousting gale; 
But now they slept: I was afraid to speak, 
And heavily the shadows crowded in. 

I called him, once; then listened: nothing moved: 

Only my thumping beat out the time. 

Whispering his name, I groped from room to room. 

Quite empty was that house; it could not hold 
His human ghost, remembered in the love 
That strove in vain to be companioned still. 

II. 

Blindly I sought the woods that I had known 

So beautiful with morning when I came 

Amazed with spring that wove the hazel copse 

With misty raiment of awakening green 

I found a holy dimness, and the peace 

Of sanctuary, austerely built of trees. 

And wonder stooping from the tranquil sky. 

lOO 



Ah! but there was no need to call his name. 

He was beside me now, as swift as light. 

I knew him crushed to earth in scentless flowers, 

And lifted in the rapture of dark pines.^ 

"For now," he said, "my spirit has more eyes 

"Than heaven has stars; and they are lit by love. 

My body is the magic of the world. 

And dawn and sunset flame with my spilt blood. 

My breath is the great wind, and I am filled 

With molten power and surge of the bright waves 

That chant my doom along the ocean's edge. 

"Look in the faces of the flowers and find 

The innocence that shrives me; stoop to the stream 

That you may share the wisdom of my peace. 

For talking water travels undismayed. 

The luminous willows lean to it with tales 

Of the young earth; and swallows dip their wings 

Where showering hawthorn strews the lanes of light. 

"I can remember summer in one thought 

^Of wind-swept green, and deeps of melting blue, 

lOl 



And scent of limes in bloom; and I can hear 
Distinct the early mower in the grass, 
Whetting his blade along some morn of June. 

"For I was born to the round world's delight, 

And knowledge of enfolding motherhood, 

Whose tenderness, that shines through constant toil, 

Gathers the naked children to her knees. 

In death I can remember how she came 

To kiss me while I slept; still I can share 

The glee of childhood; and the fleeting gloom 

When all my flowers were washed with rain of tears. 

"I triumph in the choruses of birds. 

Bursting like April buds in gyres of song, 

My meditations are tke blaze of noon 

On silent woods where glory burns the leaves. 

I have shared breathless vigils; I have slaked 

The thirst of my desires in bounteous rain 

Pouring and splashing downward through the dark. 

Loud storm has roused me with its winking glare, 
1 02 



And voice of doom that crackles overhead. 
I have been tired and watchful, craving rest, 
Till the slow-footed hours have touched my brows 
And laid me on the breast of sundering sleep." 



III. 



I know that he is lost among the stars, 
And may return no more but in their light. 
Though his hushed voice may call me in the stir 
Of whispering trees I shall not understand. 
Men many not speak with stillness; and the joy 
Of brooks that leap and tumble down green hills 
Is faster than their feet; and all their songs 
Can win no meaning from the talk of birds. 

My heart is fooled with fancies, being wise; 
For fancy is the gleaming of wet flowers 
When the hid sun looks forth with golden stare. 
Thus, when I find new loveliness to praise, 

iQ3 



And things long-known shine out in sudden grace, 

Then will I think: ^'He moves before me now." 

So he will never come but in delight; 

And, as it was in life, his name shall be 

Wonder awaking in a summer dawn, 

And youth, that dying, touched my lips to song. 



II 



104 



A Letter Home 

[To Robert Graves] 

I. 

Here I'm sitting in the gloom 
Of my quiet attic room. 
France goes rolling all around, 
Fledged with forest May has crowned. 
And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, 
Thinking how the fighting started, 
Wondering when we'll ever end it, 
Back to Hell with Kaiser send it, 
Gag the noise, pack up and go, 
Clockwork soldiers in a row. 
I've got better things to do 
Than to waste my time on you. 

II. 

Robert, when I drowse to-night. 
Skirting lawns of sleep to chase 



105 



Shifting dreams in mazy light, 
Somewhere then I'll see your face 
Turning back to bid me follow 
Where I wag my arms and hollo, 
Over hedges hasting after 
Crooked smile and baffling laughter, 
Running tireless, floating, leaping, 
Down your web-hung woods and valleys. 
Garden glooms and hornbeam alleys. 
Where the glowworm stars are peeping. 
Till I find you, quiet as stone 
On a hill-top all alone. 
Staring outward, gravely pondering 
Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering. 

III. 

You and I have walked together 

In the starving winter weather. 

We've been glad because we knew 

Time's too short and friends are few. 
lo6 



We've been sad because we missed 
One whose yellow head was kissed 
By the gods, who thought about him 
Till they couldn't do without him. 
Now he's here again; I've seen 
Soldier David dressed in green, 
Standing in a wood that swings 
To the madrigal he sings. 
He's come back, all mirth and glory, 
Like the prince in a fairy story. 
Winter called him far away; 
Blossoms bring him home with May. 

IV. 

Well, I know you'll swear it's true 
That you found him decked in blue 
Striding up through morning-land 
With a cloud on either hand. 
Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches 
Arm-in-arm with oaks and larches; 



107 



Hides all night in hilly nooks, 
Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. 
Yet, it's certain, here he teaches 
Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. 
And I'm sure, as here I stand, 
That he shines through every land, 
That he sings in every place 
Where v^e're thinking of his face. 

V. 

Robert, there's a v^ar in France; 
Everywhere men bang and blunder. 
Sweat and swear and worship Chance, 
Creep and blink through cannon thunder. 
Rifles crack and bullets flick. 
Sing and hum like hornet-swarms. 
Bones are smashed and buried quick. 
Yet, through stunning battle storms, 
All the while I watch the spark 
Lit to guide me; for I know 



io8 



Dreams will triumph, through the dark 

Scowls above me where I go. 

You can hear me; you can mingle 

Radiant folly with my jingle. 

War's a joke for me and you 

While we know such dreams are true! 



109 



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